


When Sam Came Back From Hell

by Nobe Ackerman (imbetterlive)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: But Sam is, DEAN IS REALLY NOT INTO IT, M/M, SO SORRY, Sibling Incest, don't read if you don't want sad brother feels, really sad, sad!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbetterlive/pseuds/Nobe%20Ackerman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam got back from hell, Dean had never been happier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Sam Came Back From Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So warning: THIS IS AN INCESTUOUS, NON CONSENSUAL RELATIONSHIP. If that offends you, do not read! This is also the first thing I'm posting on here, so enjoy :)

When Sam came back from Hell, Dean had never been happier.

That’s what he kept telling himself.

But there was something about his brother that was just wrong.

He loved Sam, loved him more than anything in the world. Hell, Sam was his world. 

He would do anything for his brother.   
So when he felt Sam’s heated eyes flickering over at him from the passenger’s seat as he drove them down old dusty paths across whatever city had a case, he didn’t try to distract him. Didn’t make a joke and hope to break the tension.

No, Dean pulled the car over, unbuckled his seat belt, and let his little brother climb on top of him.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe as Sam panted on top of him and ran his hands over his body, as his own flesh and blood writhed on his lap.

He squeezed his eyes shut when Sam licked up his neck and gritted his teeth when a hand slid down to his zipper.

Sam was like a stranger. The smell of his arousal, the scorching heat of his breath against Dean’s skin, the way he moved, like some kind of animal, his tongue wet and pressing against Dean’s, his fingernails scratching against Dean’s spine.

Dean had never wanted this. Never wanted Sam, not in the way his little brother wanted him.

Hell, he couldn’t even get it up half the time they did this. Or rather, when Sam did this. Dean couldn’t make himself kiss back, or touch Sam the way he wanted to be touched. Dean lay there, and spread his legs, and opened his mouth, and didn’t protest. That was their silent agreement.

It made Sam upset when Dean wouldn’t get hard. Made him sulk. Made him look up at Dean with those wondering brown eyes, ask him in his low voice if he wasn’t good enough. And God forgive him, there was nothing Dean wouldn’t do to avoid that question and keep his baby brother happy. As long as Sam was smiling, Dean could deal with the pain.

 

So he’d look away- anywhere but Sam’s face- and tried to imagine it was someone else. Anybody else. That girl from Indiana, maybe. Long pink hair, heavy brown eyes. He’d let his body disconnect from his mind and if he was lucky, soon, he’d be rutting into Sam’s hand, or mouth, or against his brother’s swollen cock.

That made Sam happy. The smile on his face made it worthwhile to Dean. Made the humiliation, the feeling of bile rising up his throat at his little brother’s erection rubbing against him, the pain, the crippling worry that in heaven Mom was watching this, watching him let Sammy violate him, go away for a second.

And he could pretend that things were normal. That Sam wasn’t pressing into his body. That his baby brother’s precum wasn’t smeared on his lips. That the boy he had practically raised hadn't somehow turned out like this, this sick man, this desperate vessel of heat and fury and lust and energy, this monster willing to overstep the very last boundary and destroy whatever remained of their broken family for a few moments of heady pleasure. 

Dean would bite down hard on something, the impala’s leather seats, a pillow, his hand (anything but Sam, don’t touch Sam, don’t touch Sam) when his brother would push into him. 

He wasn’t gentle. Dean had bled the first time. And a few times after that. 

His baby brother had no self control. 

Dean would always lie on his stomach. And on the rare occasion Sam didn’t want that, he would beg. He would muster the strength to kiss his brother’s lips and beg him to “fuck me, c’mon, Sam, fuck me doggy style, know you want to”. The words made him sick, made him sick enough to wake in the middle of the night sweating and shaking because he could still hear them echoing in his mind. It wasn’t Sam’s fault. Was never his fault. It was Dean’s fault. Dean spurred him on. Dean’s fault. Dean’s fault. Dean’s fault.

He never wanted to see Sam’s face when it happened.

He didn’t want to see what his little brother had become.

The one time he had made the mistake of turning and looking at Sam’s face he immediately went soft and before long, tears were staining the pillow under his face as his lower body throbbed with pain. Dean pretended not to notice when the sight of the tears made Sam pound into his body harder.

 

Dean loved Sam more than anything in the world. Even after what he had done to him. Even after what he continued to do to him. He could never deny his baby brother anything. Not a damn thing. Not even this.

 

Dean prayed Sam still loved him. He had to. It was the only thing keeping him going. He pretended that this fragmented display of human emotion could somehow, in some way, translate to love. He pretended that Sam getting into the shower behind him and pushing him against the cold tiles was the same as when they were little and Dean had to wash Sammy’s hair every time he broke a limb. He pretended that Sam rutting against him until he exhausted himself at night was the same as when their heating had broken and Dean had cuddled 10 year old Sammy all night to keep him warm. He pretended that the aching feeling in his throat and stomach when he spilled down his brother’s throat and Sammy licked it all up like a hungry dog was only because he was so happy to have his brother back.

 

Dean had been doing a lot of pretending lately.

 

He pretended that everything was normal when Sam was clothed and not on top of him. He pretended that every time he looked at his brother’s face he didn’t want to scream, and keep screaming, and shake him, and beg him to come back because one look at his eyes told Dean that this was not the brother he’d lost a year ago. He pretended that he wasn’t terrified every night when he went to sleep. He pretended that he didn’t make an effort to wear baggy clothes in the hopes that his brother would lose interest. He pretended that he could sit down without wincing and being reminded of the splintering, blinding pain that they could never go back to the way they were, and he might never get to see his baby brother again.

It was like Sam had never come back. Except it hurt more now.

 

But really, Dean had never been happier then when his brother came back from hell.


End file.
